


Match Point

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Blogathon 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-28
Updated: 2007-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 14:34:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/100834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was at Babylon," Brian explained, "contemplating which of the many desirable men to bless with my dick in his ass, when I suddenly got the urge for a canapé."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Match Point

**Author's Note:**

> Mid Season One  
> Written for Blogathon 2007, and prompted by LJ's flashfly, who requested "something involving the tennis courts". She didn't specify *which* tennis courts. :)

Justin had a plan in place when he went to Woody's, complete with scripted lines that he'd tested on Daphne at lunch and then honed to near perfection during math class. Things hadn't worked out exactly as he'd expected, but he _had_ scored a fuck from Brian against the bathroom stall door, sharp metal edges digging into his palms and Brian's teeth nipping at his neck. It wasn't an overnight at the loft, but he took what he could get.

He struggled to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off his face as he rushed to join the rest of the gang out front.

"See you all tomorrow night at Babylon?" Ted asked as he headed down the stairs.

There was a loud round of assents, but Justin shook his head, smirk now gone. "I can't make it."

"Pep rally?" Brian teased.

Justin shuffled uncomfortably from one step to another. "There's this big thing at my mom's country club, and she's totally making me go."

"Oooh," Michael mocked, "a cotillion!"

"It's a charity fundraiser for Allegheny General," Justin shot back.

"So? If you don't want to go, don't go." Brian shrugged into his jacket. "Say 'I'm sorry, mommy, but I'd rather get my cock sucked at Babylon'."

"Yeah, right," Justin scoffed. "Anyway, it's really important to her. She's done a lot of work for it."

"Like what?" Emmett asked.

His mother had been rushing around like a dervish for the last two weeks, dropping in at Debbie's at odd hours and chatting incessantly about her plans, but Justin hadn't exactly paid attention. He had other things on his mind -- like studying for mid-terms and figuring out how to get Brian to take him home every night. He shrugged awkwardly. "She's been doing a lot of stuff with… cake."

He blushed when the others laughed.

"Well, baby," Emmett said, "we'll miss you!"

"Yeah," Ted agreed with a smarmy grin. "We'll think of you when we're drinking…"

"And tweaking," Michael added.

"And fucking the hottest, tightest ass in the joint," Brian added with a smirk. He patted Justin's cheek. "Have fun at your little party."

"Yeah," Justin muttered as the gang separated. "Fun."

* * *

"What about that one?" Michael said.

Babylon was packed to the rafters with hot, sweaty, writhing men, none of whom Brian found even close to satisfactory. He slugged back his tenth… eleventh… fourteenth (or so) shot of bourbon and lit a cigarette. "It's not that I don't appreciate the attempt, Mikey--"

"Come on," Michael interrupted. "What's wrong with him?"

"He sobs when he comes," Brian said shortly. "It's annoying."

Michael shook his head, and pointed to a buff brunet in a wife beater. "What about him?"

Brian wrinkled his nose. "Too short."

Michael laughed. "You'd think there'd be someone here who you'd consider good enough to fuck!"

"You would think that, wouldn't you, Mikey?" Brian said. "Sadly, you'd be sorely mistaken."

Michael huffed out a sigh. "Maybe you just miss Justin," he said petulantly.

"Now _why_ would I miss Justin?"

"That's what I keep asking myself," Michael muttered. He tore his eyes away from the dancing bodies and looked up at Brian. "You wanna go? We could go play some pool. Or we could--"

Brian took a drag on his smoke and stopped listening. The lights pulsed, the strobes flashed, he was surrounded by reasonably attractive men -- and he was profoundly uninterested. And it had nothing to do with the absence of Justin. The kid was nothing but a chain around his neck, dragging him down. Nipping at his heels like a dog that had failed obedience school.

_Fuck Mikey, he doesn't know shit._

"Brian? You want to?"

Brian blinked. "_I_ want to go… to the baths." He did his best to ignore the look of disappointment in Michael's eyes, slung his arm around his shoulder instead. "You go home and play Doctor."

He left Michael at the edge of the dance floor; winked and flirted with a bartender that'd been trying to get into his pants for months, and snagged a bottle of vodka for the ride. He chased his previous bourbon shots with slugs of Stolichnaya as he drove, and told himself it was to get the hideous mental image of Mikey and Dr. Dave out of his mind.

He fully intended to make the left onto Sheaffe and spend the remainder of his evening trawling the depths of Everhard for a suitable ass. But somehow he ended up missing the turn. He left the bustle of gay Pittsburgh behind and headed towards the 'burbs.

* * *

Justin sipped soda water and tried not to look bored.

He'd been paraded in front of the McIntyres (and the Bordens, and the Wentworths, and the Robinson-Finches) and endured endless rounds of 'Have you decided where you'll be studying in the fall?' ("I'm still weighing my options") and 'You remember my daughter--' ("Of course. Nice to see you again, MarshaRebeccaDeborahTammyWhoever") and 'Your father must be so proud' (*tight lipped smile*).

He was considering feigning a brief but intense stomach illness and making his escape (possibly to Babylon; it's wasn't _too_ late, after all) when something made him perk up. A rustle of fabric. A subtle whiff of cologne. He wasn't sure what, but he glanced up and--

Brian.

Faded blue jeans, black muscle shirt. Wild eyes and swagger. Justin's dick stirred against his will even as he shoved his drink on to one of the dessert tables and went into intercept mode.

"What are you doing here?" Justin hissed.

"I was at Babylon," Brian explained, "contemplating which of the many desirable men to bless with my dick in his ass, when I suddenly got the urge for a canapé."

"You're drunk."

"An astute observation," Brian said. "That must be why you're doing so well with your secondary school education."

Justin looked around frantically. His mother was deep in conversation with one of the hospital patrons, but…

"You can't stay here," he rushed out. "My father's here somewhere and if he sees you he's going to flip out."

"Your old man?" Brian said. He wavered a little on his feet before squaring his shoulders, a glint in his eyes. If Brian's hand skated over his ribs, hesitating at the spot that still occasionally ached after a long workout, he didn't notice. His eyes narrowed. "I should go and say Hello…"

"You can't," Justin said. He blocked the way, expression determined. While he might have fantasies about walking proudly across the crowded ballroom with Brian at his side (or, possibly, riding him on the raised stage while the little three-piece orchestra plays something schmaltzy like _Smoke Gets In Your Eyes_), the reality would be raised voices, smashed glasses and looks of horror. He'll stick with the fantasy. "You have to leave."

Brian stood his ground. "Make me."

"Oh my god, Brian…"

Brian smirked.

Justin glanced around before grabbing Brian's arm and steering him toward the French doors. Brian let himself be led, for which Justin was eternally grateful. He pushed him outside and around the edge of the building, through the fence by the tennis courts, taking fleeting looks behind him the entire way. He didn't breathe easier until the sound of music from the ballroom was muffled and distant, and the only illumination was from the muted glow of the overhead lamps lighting the court.

He ran a hand through his hair before digging in his pockets for his cell phone. "I'm going to call you a cab."

"A Cab?" Brian wrinkled his nose. "But my name is Brian."

Justin sighed. "Brian--"

"I thought you were going to call me A Cab?"

Brian grinned. Goofily.

Justin saw the mischievous little ten-year-old of his past. He imagined Brian driving his mother to distraction. And Justin _had_ to grin back. That is, until Brian grabbed him by the wrist and tugged him into the centre of the court, sending his cell phone skittering along the concrete.

"Brian!"

"What do you know about tennis?" Brian asked.

"Nothing," Justin muttered. He pulled at his hand, but Brian only used the leverage to swing him around, pressing his chest to Justin's back, tugging him in closer.

"A good little country club boy like you?" Brian teased. His breath skimmed against Justin's ear, making him shiver. "I find that hard to believe."

"I know that Roger Federov has a great ass."

"I could teach you," Brian murmured. He drew his hand slowly down Justin's arm, extending their arms together. And Justin would have rolled his eyes, mentally mocked Brian's lameness and stereotypically clichéd Hollywood romantic-comedy moves… but Brian's knees were bent and his dick was pressing into Justin's ass and instead of mocking him, Justin was halfway ready to forget where they were.

And then Brian nipped at his ear and he was a goner.

He wasn't entirely sure how he was able to whip around in Brian's arms so quickly -- whether Brian let him go or his grip wasn't that strong to begin with or the adrenaline rush of having Brian so close and so hot and so _hard_ gave him super speed or something -- but he was there, Brian's fingers wrapped in his new dress shirt, and their lips met, hot and wet, and he didn't think he could get close enough.

He strained at the material on Brian's back, and then the world tipped and the concrete was cool on his heated flesh. His trousers were loose at his hips and Brian's breath -- vodka and scotch and cigarettes and desperation -- seared his skin.

"Forty, love," Justin mumbled.

Brian pulled back, grinning wolfishly. "You think so?"

And Justin's world spun again as Brian expertly flipped him onto his stomach. He kissed concrete and struggled to get purchase, hard sharp pebbles digging into his palms, but Brian covered him, blanketed him… and he loved it, loved that feeling of being dominated, of being _taken_.

"Deuce," Brian said against his ear.

Justin pushed against the weight covering him. Enough was enough. "Fuck me," he gritted out.

Brian shifted minutely, and Justin took his shot. He slid backward and pushed upward to give Brian better access, ignoring the sting in his palms and his knees, trousers bunched around his thighs, and the cool air on his sensitive skin almost brought him back to his senses. Almost. Then Brian's hands were palming his cheeks. Brian's thumbs caressed his crack. And Justin didn't care that he was on all fours, ass in the air, waiting to be fucked to within an inch of his life in the middle of his mother's prestigious country club. Panting and moaning when the potential for discovery was imminent.

Or maybe that was part of the thrill.

He shook his head. None of that mattered. All that mattered was him, Brian, now…

"Now," Justin moaned.

Brian's hands were warm as they palmed open his buttocks, leaving him open and exposed. Vulnerable. Justin keened low in his throat.

"Advantage: Kinney," Brian murmured just before he plunged his tongue inside.

Justin arched up, on fire. Like the first time. He squinted his eyes shut and saw stars dancing on the lids. Spread his knees and reached for his straining cock only to have Brian slap his hand away. And then, after what seemed like both an instant and an eternity, when the need to be filled was almost overwhelming, when he was ready to demand, weep, beg: the familiar sound of the condom wrapper.

He pushed up to meet the long, slow thrusts, working his muscles the way Brian had taught him, and he didn't give a shit who saw them or what anyone else thought. Brian's hand pumped his dick in time with his thrusts and Justin reached around to grasp at Brian's thigh, to pull him close. Needed him faster, harder, deeper. More. Needed him now, always.

When he comes he forgets his name, his place, his life. But he always remembers Brian.

After, he turned his cheek to the cool cement, breathing heavily, Brian sprawled beside him. There were crickets chirping in the long grass next to the courts, and he thinks idly that the gardener has been slacking off this year. The orchestra inside the ballroom is playing something from a Broadway musical, something he's seen in the collection of old scratched records in Debbie's attic.

Brian's elbow nudged him, so he lazily turned his head.

Brian chuckled. "Match point."


End file.
